Coin for Zoltar
On carnival night the bulbs burned low and gold,
I stood before Zoltar's wooden chest,
Turbaned prophet, tall with painted eyes of cold,
Yet burning like a secret fate confessed.
I dropped a coin of sorrow in his slot,
Heard gears hum soft beneath the dreaming glass,
My heart sprang open, unlocked by what time could not:
A flood of cherished memories let loose at last.
"Speak," I whispered to the oracle of wood,
"Can dreams wear flesh? Can lost hearts meet?"
His crystal gaze weighed all I could,
Then night ignited, warm beneath my feet.
And there, oh there, my beloved stepped through light,
A sunrise stitched in human skin,
My face bloomed, cherry blossoms after rain at night,
Joy spilling out like wine from cup to chin.
His smile, an enchanted lantern in the dark,
Wrapped my soul in velvet, dream-soft, true,
We danced on air, our laughter left a spark
That turned the harsh world into something new.
Reality may bite, but Zoltar knows this art:
Hope's a coin we spend against despair.
So I stand here still, beneath his watchful heart,
One coin of sorrow gone, one coin of hope still there.
"I'm the Carnival's
Cartomancer,
Zoltar the mystic,
foreseeing wise."
"Who immobile waits...
inside this
narrow case--
top four-sided glass
and bottom
Pine-crafted box.
"It's wishing coin's
'ka-ching',
that magically
revives me."
"As true believers
witness--once
my turbaned gaze
mentally reads
what's seeping out
their inquiring eyes."
"Fact is--these
animated hands,
randomly select
from the magnetic deck--
one, out of many, fortune
riddled cards--inked of
buoyant, superb vibes."
"Though blissful, playful,
mind you--all of 'em--
merciful white lies."
"Behold, each
future's scripted
and then sold;"
"To luck--searching,
wishing souls--
on fortune--tellin',
Robot--sellin' cards."
"Whose promised prizes
are a Carney vendor's
paradise."
Colors of life, fertility, sanctity fly
Aromas include sweetmeats, coconut, fire
There's flowers galore, honey, spices
Not for meals only, but especially decoration
Focus now on the bride: Vermillion path
From the Center of her head, to her top height
A sign of vows of fidelity in blood (SINDOOR)
As with red dot: bindi, RED FOR MARRIAGE
Other colors are for youth and single women
The man arrives on horseback (donkey often)
Turbaned as of old, shiny suit, India style
The usual makeup dominated by mascara KAJAR
I may dream my Christian wife would like this, too
In the semi-arid suburb, Medina,
A high pitch of sound echoed.
It dopplered through misty shrubs.
A helical dawn goes tidally.
The Pathfinder: stepped,
deep nodded, starry-eyed,
Scarfed fragrant keffiyeh.
Reeled a full throttle of forgiven,
Headed to his students.
The teaching of liberty,
Primed course of life.
I
David Frost in the month of September
Before the US opening in October
(Not live, except Paul sang live throughout;
But the mixed fans will thrill; even a turbaned Sikh)
So if you fell weighed down today in 2020
Go back in time; thanks to YouTube: "Make it better!"
II
Please SEARCH this video from those glorious Beatles' archives
Feel the PEACE & HOPE from the Pauls, Ringos, Lennons, & Georges
In South Africa, our budding talents, sang : HEY JUNE
And it is making the rounds: SEARCH that too
"Hey June, in South Africa" and get my news. Better 'n' BETTER!
Years of worshipping the Sun God are
changing me: the beach baby I was is no
more. Sun whisperer says, Get Ready. Clear
your mind. Be one of a kind. Each day
he takes his marker out and claims more
and more territory, and I become deciduous,
more like indigenous: the Cigar Store
Indian, the turbaned lady on a cardboard
box-- not like strips from sugarcane stalks
my father brought home from mountain
trips, but the plump blueberries he made
into pies, or the wild blackberries like miniature
hives meandering the sand hills beyond our
house. Resistance to change is the end,
they say. So I bend, I bend...
Hills pull their blankets out
and leave bare their naked spines
permitting Junes and me
to Summer there
Streams must appear to Him
as traveling caravans
The painted leaves like prisms do
with hues of rumpled Persian rugs
All seems Persia has pulled it's banners out
and march off to the sea
Turbaned poplars and lakes like tents
Is it jocosity?
Hey, hey, I want to dance the *KARAGAM dance
*Hey, Sham, Manu, bring pitchers from archives
Fill the pitchers with water and uncooked rice
As rice symbolizes food that sustain our lives.
With twirls bodies move free with intricate steps
*Dhotis, jackets furl and the turbaned heads unfurl
Hands holding peacock feathers of rainbow colors
While small bells in their anklets and belts swirl.
The vocalists sing and the drum bits pick motion
And with that the vocalists start singing songs divine.
As the rhythm picks up, so does audience’s emotion
To invoke the Gangai Amman, the Goddess of rain.
================================
* A form of Indian Folk dance
** Indian names
*** Indian dress
March 15, 2014
Dr. Ram Mehta
Form: Free Verse
First Place Win
Contest: Impress Me with Small Poems V By Giorgio V.
Motif: Religious - A religious ceremony performed to invoke Goddess of Rain
The first gardening of the year maybe is small beer
Tightening tired muscles digging the seven by nine,
These great beetroot symphonies so divine where
Rebellion rife not growing this, but the runner bean
Its bright red - orange flowers and pods profuse
Straight and long or turbaned at the tip to try to be
Better than a neighbour's, though I dare not place a bet.
One has to grow tates that Raleigh brought over the Pond
That until a few years ago was no appetiser, being grown as
Fertile compost, but now are edible with butter sliding down
Their crevices even if their shapes arrogant supermarkets decry
And leeks to complement daffodils in the flower garden and mint,
That the Irish bard of our century wrote well its composition, its
Colour, shape, and sharp but pleasant smell and strawberries few,
To share with the garden birds theirs and ours keen cream appetites.
Profiling Can Be the Best Way To Go
By Elton Camp
If a feeble, little old lady comes walking by
Is your reaction the same if a thug you spy?
If not, then it’s profiling in which you engaged
A practice that makes some become so enraged
But there are times it can make a whole lot of sense
Especially if against terrorists you’re making a defense
Airport security is an excellent example of such a time
The emphasis should on those likely to commit crime
Experience with terrorists causes us to know the type
To screen those more is no valid reason for any to gripe
To search a young kid from head to toe
Most certainly is not the correct way to go
A turbaned man muttering, “Allah be blessed”
Carefully check and if necessary then arrest
If he calls it “discrimination,” what do we care
Good sense can be far more important than fair
The stench of gasoline and gore
permeated the encampment.
I am a prisoner of war
And I’m held in a stinking tent
that I share with a gun toting
taliban soldier. His black eyes
staring intently and gloating
as though I were a trophy prize
whose head would soon hang on a stick
for all his turbaned insurgents
to pelt with stones and broken bricks.
I expect his malevolent
Nature to vent with certainty
which translates: it’s curtains for me!
“Couldn’t we all just be right?”
At the hind end of the elephant holding its tail; the first blind man said.
“Rotten luck all of us being blind!” said the blind, seated man hugging a leg.
“Perhaps, this entity is a snake.” Said the skinny blind man squeezing the trunk.
“Every one knows there is only ONE!” screamed the blind child astride.
“Don’t holler at you’re elders.” The turbaned tail wiggler shouted.
“Everyone I know thinks there’s MANY”. Said the blind woman rubbing toenails.
“Unlikely, very unlikely,” they bickered. “It’s a Snake.” “It’s a Tree”. “It’s a rope!”
“Maybe we should ask IT.” Said the child, and she laughed till she fell off.
The show is on.
Sedition will play with death now.
Deceitful black knives, white gloves.
No hope, battle lines are drawn.
The wasps are whirring at a furious speed
stings ready to inject venom.
Bronzed body,
huge turbaned skull.
Eyes looking beyond you,
hauls you through slumber
of ages. The autopsy extracts out a bullet
fired at close range, poured into chest.
Death had a party.
Frilled guns,
yellow metal
are ready to kill.
Extended pain of centuries haunts the future.
Give me the tearful farewell
for another ruined journey.
We will bury the present, forget the past.
SATISH VERMA
Turbaned head
Red and white clothed
Benignly asks
'Should I help?'
To reach the
r i g h t
compartment
The train is on time
Arriving on platform number one
He covers long distances
Spots the compartment
Carries the load
Undisturbed, untroubled, unrisked
Keeps the luggage
Takes his fee
Departs
How noble service!
Humble obeisance
No orders, no requests, no curse, no advices
Benevolently appears
Helps the mass
Unasked, unanswered
To reach the destination
Bears the weight solely
But nameless duty
His unique dignity.
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